


The Genetic Inheritance Affair, 2: A blond and a redhead

by Hypatia_66



Series: The Genetic Inheritance Affair [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Community: section7mfu, F/M, Gen, Original Character(s), THRUSH, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 18:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13816503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: So, what happened?





	The Genetic Inheritance Affair, 2: A blond and a redhead

**A blond and a redhead**

 

The Thrush computer shook itself and began to shed leaves containing the personal details of suitable candidates for the project. There weren’t all that many.

“How many were you hoping for, Dr Dabree?” asked the statistician entrusted with the task.

“At least ten. Is that the best Thrush can produce? It’s a pitiful choice.”

“That’s all, unless you want to use test subjects from outside. Without adequate data, we would find it difficult to discover them.”

“No, outsiders are impossible. We would have to manage them afterwards. I suppose six will have to do, for now.”

“Shall I do the same search for men?”

“No – we shan’t be using Thrush men yet. This is my own, preliminary, test.” Her voice had a vicious pitch as she added, “A pound of flesh – still owed by UNCLE – I shall claim it from two very special men.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m going to hurt UNCLE where it matters. A race of opponents to destroy their fathers _and_ that organisation.”

The statistician – fairly happily married, with his statistically normal family of two children and another on the way – swallowed, and said, “Surely their fathers will be gone by the time their offspring are old enough.”

“Not even retired – unless they’re killed on one of their missions,” Dr Dabree looked at her colleague. “And _I_ want to see it, too. Hence the urgency.”

He shrugged, and she said sharply, “Do you doubt the merit of the project?”

“Oh no, no indeed.”

oo000oo

Six hapless women, gathered from Thrush bases around the world, had arrived and were waiting in the medical section of Thrush Central, not yet aware of their role. Each was subjected to detailed questioning about their private lives, examined, tested, and given a special diet for a month. This was followed by further tests and questions and then they were told of the master race plan.

Even Thrush women have some pride and, though protests had never been encouraged among that organisation’s personnel, nevertheless, “I’m a physicist, not a prostitute!” one said angrily. And, “I’m a weapons expert, not a milch cow!” said another. “I’ve got a fiancé…” whispered a quiet mathematician. “I don’t like men,” two fierce women (one small and feminine, one large and _not_ ) said, as if that were a clinching argument. The last said nothing. She seemed unperturbed, even compliant. Most satisfactory.

By the time these preparations had been completed, two (more or less) perfect specimens of manhood had been brought to the base and subjected to their own tests and examinations.

The women were given an opportunity to choose, unlike the men, not that it improved their, now-concealed, sense of outrage. They made their choices, with the one disputed preference resolved in favour of the larger, fiercer woman.

oo000oo

The process took some days to complete, to enable male revitalisation between partners, and for the watchers to evaluate observed phenomena. That was the approved justification, anyway – only their written reports, not their discussions, are on record.

Only one of the encounters appeared to have given any satisfaction – and even then, only to the woman. The rest naturally ended with very hot showers, recriminations, backs turned, tears, or just exhaustion. Cigarettes, but sadly no alcohol, had been made available, but no-one had chosen to smoke afterwards.

The reports were a little coy about details, but offered a suggestion that if the results of the encounters proved negative, perhaps next time the parties might be given more time to get to know each other – it might encourage further effort.

The never-married Dr Dabree, reading this, snorted, and said, “They had all night. How much longer do people need?”

oo000oo

Unacquainted with the psychology of such situations, Dr Dabree was even less familiar with the sexual behaviour of the single male. Her biblical knowledge fell short, for example, of details of the gentleman who had given his name to an activity she had not considered and knew little about. That they might attempt to dilute their vigour by quite ordinary means, or even, so to speak, withdraw compliance, had not occurred to her. It wasn't always effective, of course, but any dilution would be likely to negative the result.

So, she was annoyed to discover that out of all this careful planning there was only one positive result.

“One of them did say they’d been exposed to radiation,” offered her colleague. “That might have had an adverse effect on fertility.”

“Yes, but it’s his. So it didn’t.”

“Perhaps the other one’s firing blanks.”

Dr Dabree’s mystified expression required him to provide a more technical description of another possibility that hadn’t occurred to her.

oo000oo

“It’s been two months. Do you think they’ll let us know – if only out of spite?” said Illya, one morning.

Interpreting the subject of the question without difficulty, Napoleon replied, “They might, but they know we’re trying to find the women, anyway.”

Illya groaned. “And when we do?”

“Wouldn’t you like to bounce three beautiful blond babies on your knee?”

Illya dropped his head into his hands. “I would not. That is, I quite like children, as long as they’re other people’s and can be taken away again.”

“No desire for fatherhood?”

“Not like this.”

“Nor me, partner. Maybe they’re all having lots of hot baths, or gin – Mother’s Ruin, and all that.”

“I’m not sure that any of those old-wives’ remedies work.”

“Keep praying, then.”

oo000oo

After the surprising release of the two UNCLE agents, efforts had been put into identifying the six women. In the case of two of Illya’s partners, the descriptions were quite detailed – he had had quite interesting, if strained, exchanges about particle physics and the chemistry of explosives afterwards. The first woman of the three, however, had been very cagy, though not entirely unfriendly. Their night together had been, if not what either would have chosen, at least not completely intolerable. The less said about the others, the better.

Napoleon had had to employ all his considerable charm, and even natural kindliness, to avoid being scratched or throttled, or just wept over. Subsequent conversations had been frosty, to say the least, though he did discover that the weepy one might have had more in common with his partner. At least they could have talked about Schrödinger’s cat, or something. She didn’t respond to idle chat about fashion, anyway. He didn’t attempt that subject with the others, and discovered little about them, apart from the nature of their preferred sexual partners. Very little can disguise revulsion, even when someone tries – and they didn’t. He wasn’t used to that. It wasn’t fair. Why hadn’t they all chosen his cleverer, prettier partner?

oo000oo

A smug note was sent by private courier to UNCLE headquarters. Mr Waverly read it, raised his eyebrows, and sent for his agent.

“I, er… can’t sweeten the message, I’m afraid. It says you were successful at your first… _attempt_ , shall we say. Not the others, evidently, you may be relieved to know.”

Illya sat blankly facing him, his shoulders slumped, white to the lips, his face a picture of misery.

“We need to find this poor woman,” Waverly said. “Have you remembered anything she said, that might give a clue to where she is currently posted?”

Illya shook his head. “She wouldn’t talk about herself.”

oo000oo

Napoleon wasn’t sure whether to be sympathetic or offer congratulations – he wasn’t quite sure what he might have wanted had it been him. The lack of colour in his friend’s face and his appalled demeanour, led him to choose sympathy, which persuaded Illya to break his silence.

“Are you sure she didn’t tell you anything?”

“Yes.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Not much. She seemed… very… “

“What?”

“Contained. Like someone keeping a secret. She wouldn’t say what she did, or what she liked – nothing.”

“They were all pretty secretive.”

“Wait.” Illya bent his head, thinking. “There _was_ something – a phrase she used. I can’t remember…”

“Lie back and think of Russia – maybe it’ll come back to you.”

Illya appeared to take him literally and lay back in his chair. Then he sat up.

“She said I ought to go out and get pissed – that was what she was going to do.”

“Weren’t you pretty pissed already?”

“Aha – the word pissed has different meanings, depending where you are. The English say ‘getting pissed’ when they mean getting drunk. When they mean angry, the English say ‘pissed off’. It’s whether it’s used transitively or intransitively,” he said obscurely, and thought for a moment, “But it’s a strange language – if you say ‘piss off’, you’re telling someone to leave.”

Napoleon cleared his throat, meaningfully. Illya scratched his head and remembered what he was meant to be talking about. “Yes, anyway… she was American, but I think she must have lived in Britain long enough to pick up their slang. I was a bit surprised,” he added, “people don’t say ‘pissed’ very often in polite company.”

“You’re hardly polite company,” Napoleon commented, but Illya wasn’t listening.

“We need to talk to the London office. I’ll tell Mr Waverly.” And he leapt up and almost ran out of the office, even catching and bruising his shoulder on the door in his hurry.

oo000oo

A list of possible Thrush female agents, together with photographs, came through from London later in the day, very slowly – it took over an hour – on the new and very expensive facsimile machine. Indifferent to such considerations and impatient, Illya laid the images out on the table and examined them, watched by Mr Waverly and Napoleon.

“I don’t think these are very recent photographs,” he commented, trying to decide, first with glasses on and then with them off.

“And you don’t recognise her with her clothes on,” said Napoleon, forgetting for a moment where he was and only reminded when Waverly growled a reproof.

Illya, who was concentrating, ignored this. “She had red hair. Maybe this one – the hairstyle is different, and she looks less… um… buxom, but I think so.” He held out a photograph and the report on the young woman.

“Helena McAndrew … Scottish descent … born in Virginia … age, 27,” Waverly read. “Fine shot … linguist. Interesting – she has a non-Thrush boyfriend, something not apparently known to her employers.”

Napoleon looked at Illya thoughtfully, but said nothing. Waverly continued, “She hasn’t been seen in London in recent weeks; it is thought she may have been transferred back to the US.”

“Where would she be taken?” Napoleon wondered. “Somewhere healthy, with outdoor pursuits, good food, away from the city?”

“And this is such a small country from which to choose likely locations,” Illya snapped.

“The West Coast would be a good place to bring up a child,” said Waverly (who had a secret wish to retire there). Then seeing the expression on his agent’s face, he said, “my apologies, Mr Kuryakin – but we _are_ talking about a child, however unwelcome.”

oo000oo

Of all the regional UNCLE offices checked, Los Angeles offered the most likely clues. They had noted increased Thrush activity around a beach-front area west of the city.

The reluctant father-to-be and his partner arranged to stay at a beach front house near others similarly occupied by people wishing to maintain their privacy. Dressed casually like everyone else around, they fitted into the scene reasonably well – if a little stiffly in Illya’s case, though he was more relaxed when it came to the beach and swimming. He acquired a golden tan and his slim, muscular figure attracted a good deal of attention from those neighbours interested enough to watch from their various vantage points. Napoleon was less keen on swimming but attracted his own share of attention, which might prove helpful if they were to find more clues to Miss McAndrew’s location.

One late afternoon, after a day spent pursuing evidence, he was lazing on a deckchair watching beach activity. He kept an eye on Illya who was out in the water snorkelling, not worrying about him particularly – it was only in water that he ever saw Illya really happy – but just concerned enough to keep watch.

The sand deadened all footsteps, so he jumped when a husky voice suddenly spoke his name from behind his chair. He looked round as a young woman sat herself down beside him, keeping partly hidden from the swimmers. The red hair was partly hidden by a hat.

“Miss McAndrew, I presume,” he said mildly, recognising her features from the not-very-recent photograph, and containing his surprise.

“I know UNCLE has been looking for me, so congratulations – you’ve found where they’ve been hiding me.”

Napoleon gestured a mendacious but graceful affirmative. “Indeed,” he said, and added, “I understand the process we all endured was productive in your case.”

“Process? Endured? Dear me. Well, it could have been like that, but your friend didn’t seem to think it was just a procedural matter. He was surprisingly conciliatory – I don’t know whether he enjoyed it, but I didn’t hate it as much as I thought I would. But no, actually it wasn’t productive.”

“Not?” Napoleon’s voice went up a tone in surprise.

“Not,” she said firmly. “It was a huge relief to be put into the programme because … well, I had made a mistake and needed to hide it. The _it_ is not his.”

Napoleon sank back in his deckchair and looked out to where he could still see the snorkel and exhaled slowly. The relief he felt was on a number of levels, including … Then he sat up again. It couldn’t be true.

“How do you know? They must have checked for that, surely?”

“Of course, but not every pregnancy reveals itself immediately... things can go on happening. I knew, though, immediately – women often do, you know – and I managed to hide it. This is a four-month bump. Look.”

This was scarcely a subject on which Napoleon was expert, but he looked and saw a bump, and shrugged. “And, apart from the obvious, the problem is what?”

“I originally chose _you_ because your friend is blond; I have red hair – the gene for that is recessive. It needs both parents to have it – my parents did – so, any child of his and mine would be most likely blond or red-haired. _This_ child will almost certainly have olive skin and black hair like its actual father - and more like you.”

“So, we don’t need to arrest you because, in fact, you need our help and protection?”

“And right now. That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about. I’ve managed to slip away without them seeing.”

The shadow that fell across them was the dripping body of the no-longer father-to-be, who stood frowning down at them.

Napoleon looked up and beamed at him. “Good news,” he said. “Your prayers have been answered.”

 

**ooo0000ooo**

**Author's Note:**

> Pissed/pissed off/piss off. Not used in polite UK company much in the 1960s. Things have changed since then.


End file.
